


Alternating Voices

by Beth Harker (Beth_Harker)



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: Miscommunication, Multi, One Shot, Post Squip mental issues, a lot angstier than the plot summary would seem to indicate, ambiguous ending, brief non-graphic mention of the sex life of a 90's science fiction actor, discussion and thoughts about the possibility of animal death, implied relationship problems
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-02 04:32:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17257634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beth_Harker/pseuds/Beth%20Harker
Summary: Jeremy finds some abandoned kittens.





	Alternating Voices

At nine o’clock, Jeremy leaves Christine's house to make a 7-11 run, ostensibly to buy soda and a lighter, though judging from his abrupt shifts between fidgety and eerily still over the last few hours, it's more likely than not that his brain is getting loud and he needs some space to clear it. 

At a quarter to ten, Christine is staring out the window at her snowy backyard, while Michael lies on her bed, fiddling with his unlit clay pipe, and explaining how David Duchovny left x-files at the end of season seven to deal with his sex addiction. Michael doesn't get to smoke the pipe in Christine’s room, but it has a pretty iridescent glaze, and there are no rules against admiring it. Besides, if Jeremy hurries back, Michael and him might be able to light up behind the tree outside. 

As the seconds tick by, it becomes more and more evident that Jeremy is _not_ hurrying back. 

(Christine looks up the David Duchovny thing. The official word on why he left X-Files seems to be fear of typecasting, which Christine can get behind. She has lots ideas about non-traditional casting possibilities for Broadway shows, which she lists off for Michael, because if there is one thing the two of them are good at, it's rambling at each other about their unrelated obsessions.)

At ten o’clock, It's still just Michael and Christine . 

“Should we send out a search party?” Christine asks. “Not the kinda party I was hoping for, but maybe we should look for Jeremy.” 

“He's not answering texts.” 

Christine drums her fingers against the windowsill. The cold from outside seeps through the glass. Tonight is supposed to be fun, not a _party_ party, just a little get together between friends and boy friends, to celebrate the end of the first semester of senior year. Finals were mad difficult, and it's like Christine hasn't been able to come up for air in the last month. 

Michael sighs. “As much as I'd like to become one with your bed, the search party thing makes a lot of sense.” 

“I’ll get my boots.” 

“Wait—” Michael holds up his phone. “He just sent me… Cats?” 

“Cats?” 

“A text that says—”

“Cats?”

“Cats.” 

“Ask him if he means the animal, or—”

“What else could he mean? There aren't a ton of meanings to—”

Before Michael can finish his sentence, Christine's door swings open. 

“Cats!” Jeremy says, in way of greeting. His face is flushed, and he's shivering. His sneakers track snow onto the floor. “I found cats! Look!” He unzips his coat, so that a tiny face can pop out. Michael perks up on the bed, and Christine rushes over to meet Jeremy. 

“They were in a box in the garbage! Three of them. Shit it's cold. Could you—?” 

Jeremy holds out the kitten, clearly waiting for somebody to take it out of his hands, which Christine does, cradling it to her chest. It's silent, shaking, and smaller than Christine's pet rabbit.

Now that Jeremy’s hands are free, he's able to continue the task of removing his coat. Christine strokes the kitten in her arms, waiting for the other two to fall out of Jeremy’s pocket, or the warm folds of his cardigan.

Apparently, Michael is waiting for the same thing. 

“Dude, kittens! Where are the rest of the kittens?” Michael asks. 

“This one seemed like the healthiest of the three,” Jeremy explains. “I thought the other two would be a waste of resources, you know? According to calculations, they had only an eleven percent chance of survival, and a ninety-four percent chance of causing unnecessary grief.” 

Christine’s mouth gapes, both at Jeremy’s words, and at the almost monotone quality of his voice as he speaks them. He's blowing on his hands to warm them, eyes fixed on something in the distance.

“ _You_ thought that?” Christine asks. Something is off. Jeremy is the kind of person who gets teary-eyed at ASPCA commercials. 

“I thought that,” Jeremy says. 

Michael looks from the kitten in Christine's arms, to Jeremy, and back again. 

“Just clarifying,” Michael continues, picking up where Christine left off. “You, Jeremy Heere, believe that motherless kittens are a waste of resources and should therefore be left in a trash can to freeze to death? That makes sense, according to your world view?” 

“I—” Jeremy goes still, eyes widening. “Oh fuck. No. I mean…. No. I don't think that. Those weren't my thoughts. It was—”

“Right. Figured.” Michael gets up off the bed, taking Jeremy by the arm. “Come on. I'll drive us back to sev-elev.”

As Christine follows, the kitten lets out a tiny meow. What does it need? Is it hungry? Is it thirsty? Is it circling the metaphorical drain? 

“Wait a sec,” Christine says. She opens up her dresser drawer, grabbing up an armful of sweaters. Those should keep the kitten warm! She grabs her purse as well, shoving her phone in it. She can do research while Michael is driving. “Okay,” Christine says. “Let's go.” 

—-

Kittens open their eyes seven to ten days after birth. 

Kittens should not leave their mother before they are eight weeks old. 

Mother cats lick their babies’ tummies to stimulate that bladder and bowels, and motherless kittens need their caregivers to do this for them using a warm washcloth. 

Kittens should never be fed when they are cold. Feeding a cold kitten can cause it to die. 

These are the things that Christine discovers on the trip to 7-11. 

Michael is more bent on discovering how Jeremy could have gotten the Squip’s voice mixed up with his own thoughts. Michael doesn't understand that the Squip’s voice is often derived from its host’s thoughts. The technology has an uncanny knack for taking worst thing you’re already thinking, and making them crueler and more eloquent. 

“Sometimes everything seems pointless,” Jeremy tries to explain. “I think that's where it came from. I mean, that's how I really feel sometimes, so it sounded like me when it said—”

“I get what you’re saying,” says Michael, who doesn't. “And I know your dad is working on finding someone to help you with that, but we’ve gotta come up with a system for recognizing when stuff isn't you—”

“But if it's partially me, then—”

Michael doesn't pause in what he is saying, or even look at Jeremy.

“—Like, if there are a lot of weird numbers, it's not you. If you find yourself thinking cute fluffy animals are better off dead, it's not you.” 

“I mean, I’ve had this creeping feeling of dread, where it's like bad things _will_ happen, no matter what I do, so I might as well—“

“I'll hook you up with more Red. We’ll get it out.” 

“ _Michael_.” 

“It's purring,” Christine interrupts. “Also, we’re going to have to buy special formula for it. I think it's around two weeks old, maybe.” 

“Is two weeks old a good age?” Jeremy asks. 

“It's not the worst! The worst would be if it were just a couple of days old.” 

Michael pulls into the 7-11 parking lot. 

“You good to show us the others?” he asks.

It takes some circling, and for a while Christine thinks somebody else must’ve taken the cats, or else taken the trash out, but they find the box, and the kittens inside it. 

“I can't believe they’re alive.” Jeremy’s voice sounds thick. Christine places a hand on his back. Michael picks up the box, and hands it to Jeremy. 

“What do you want to do with them?” Michael asks, like he's trying to sound casual, but super failing. A lot rides on Jeremy’s answer. 

“Get them home. And get a vet. And some food, like…” 

“Powdered milk formula,” Christine supplies. 

“Milk formula! So much milk formula. And blankets.” 

“Awesome,” Michael agrees, in a tone of tired relief. “Let's go play cat parents.”


End file.
